


The Finding

by LucyLovecraft



Category: Ogniem i Mieczem | With Fire and Sword (1999), Trylogia | The Trilogy - Henryk Sienkiewicz
Genre: First Time, M/M, Porn with Feelings, Short One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-04
Updated: 2018-03-04
Packaged: 2019-03-26 16:30:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13861674
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LucyLovecraft/pseuds/LucyLovecraft
Summary: Jan was attacked and wounded, recovering in an out-of-the-way hamlet. He knew Bohun had been hunting him, but could not have guessed the reasons why. Neither could Bohun himself, until he saw Jan again.





	The Finding

Jan had been resting, finally feeling well enough to enjoy sleep as a luxury rather than a price the body paid for recovery. That morning he had gone for a ride in the spring sun, basking in the warmth of it and relishing the feeling of being up and moving again. The countryside was quiet, as well it might be: this place was so secluded that he’d never heard of it before necessity forced him to shelter here.

On returning, he’d taken the blacksmith up on his friendly offer to put a finer edge on Jan’s sword.

He regretted that decision now.  
  
“I found you,” Bohun said, breathing hard. He stood in the doorway like an avenging spectre, limned in red by the light of the setting sun.  
  
Jan backed against the wall, hand reaching for a sabre that was not there. His swordbelt with his knife lay on a chair just across the room, but it might has well have been a thousand miles away.  
  
“They said you were dead,” Bohun said.  
  
“Only wounded,” Jan replied, proud that his voice did not waver.  
  
“Are you recovered?”  
  
“Why,” Jan demanded, lifting his chin, “would you hesitate to harm a wounded man?”  
  
“No. And I did not.”  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“They told me you were surely dead, but that you’d put up a fight. I saw the truth of that, yet it did not stop me.”  
  
“What are you saying?”  
  
Bohun stepped in, kicking the door shut behind him, but never taking his eyes from Jan. He seemed unable to look away, as though with every glance he had to reassure himself that his quarry was truly there.  
  
“I’m saying that they’re dead. Every one.”  
  
“What?” Jan asked.  _“Why?”_  
  
“Because I’d told them that you were not to be touched. That you were mine.”  
  
The Cossack trembled like a man possessed, and Jan saw his death in that terrible, dark face. With dreadful certainty, Jan knew that he would meet his end in this wretched place, and that no one would ever know what had befallen him. But he was a soldier: Jan would die on his feet, and if no one knew of his end, yet still his soul would be able stand before God and say that he had fought bravely even to the hour of his death.  
  
As though in a dream, then, he saw Bohun throw away his sabre.  
  
In two swift strides the Cossack closed the space between them, staggering like a drunk. His hands seized either side of Jan’s head, and Jan thought Bohun might intend to choke the life from him. Instead he held him, those terrible eyes fixed on Jan’s.

They stood, poised for one dreadful, knife-edged moment of calm.  
  
Then the storm struck.  
  
Bohun kissed as though he were drowning. Jan could barely breathe himself; the full fury of it was overwhelming. The Cossack was not a man but a force of nature. Jan’s mind was reeling, bewildered by the realisation of impossible hopes, but his body responded. When Jan pulled Bohun closer the floodgates opened to release a tide neither could hope to withstand.  
  
Clawing hands tore at Jan’s sash, then ripped at his clothes. Jan could hear the heavy sound of straining seams and scattering buttons, punctuated by Bohun’s hissed curses.  
  
When the man drew his knife, Jan’s death came suddenly back to him, glinting on the edge of Damascene steel. Then the front of his _kontusz_ was in Bohun’s hand, the knife flashing. Wool and embroidery and linen were all cut away until Jan’s exposed skin prickled in the cool air. The knife clunked to the floor. Bohun’s hands were warm, the callouses rough, their touch rougher. Then they were at his waist, tugging the fabric away.  
  
Bohun dropped to his knees in front of him.  
  
Jan wanted to say something, to tell Bohun he didn’t have to do this. There was a bed not six feet away. Jan had his own areas of expertise, and he should like to—but Bohun’s breath was hot on Jan’s hip, the moustache tickling and coarse against sensitive skin.  
  
Jan reached for him, burying a hand in the dark hair, shutting his eyes for a moment to enjoy the thick, silky feel of it through his fingers. For a moment they were still, breathing hard, frozen in tableaux.  
  
Then Bohun took him in his mouth and Jan forgot everything else, lost to a dizzying pleasure, if somewhat clumsy and frantic. Jan winced at a particularly unfortunate scrape of teeth and had to wonder _where_ Bohun could possibly have learned to be so unskillful. But then there was also the warm, slick heat of his mouth, and the hum of Bohun’s own moans, running raw right to Jan’s core.  
  
For all the clumsiness, there was such desperate desire there that Jan felt himself hurtling fast towards a point of no return. He groaned and tightened his grip on Bohun’s hair, trying to hold the man back, to give him some warning. Bohun’s only response was an irritated growl and a redoubling of efforts that pushed Jan over the edge into a lightning-strike moment of blinding ecstasy.  
  
For a time Jan could only stand there, gasping. Every muscle had gone slack, with only Bohun’s hand on his hip holding him upright.  
  
Bohun fell back, pushing away from Jan as if burned. Breathing hard, he wiped at his mouth, eyes blazing up at Jan.  
  
Jan let himself slip to the floor, legs akimbo.  
  
He stared at Bohun, not quite able to understand what had just happened. His mind was utterly dazed, but he had a strange sense of something opening inside him, of a swelling, golden feeling in his chest, spreading, rising, lifting him until it felt as though his heart hurt, tugging hard at its moorings. His sight of Bohun blurred as tears filled his eyes, and he dashed them away. The lightness in his chest was almost unbearable now, and it impelled him forward.  
  
Bohun was still sprawled away from him on the floor, and he watched Jan’s approach with a blank panic that stirred something like pity in the nobleman’s heart. Crawling on his knees, Jan straddled one leg and reached out slowly, as he might to a startled horse. He touched Bohun’s cheek.  
  
A catch of breath, a tensing like a bird poised for flight, and then Bohun let out a slow, unsteady sigh.  
  
Carefully, Jan bent his head, and tilted Bohun’s chin up so the other man’s lips met his own.  
  
Bohun’s hand gripped his wrist as they kissed, neither pushing away nor pulling closer, but _holding_ it until Jan winced.  
  
“Careful! That hurts,” Jan said, pulling his hand away and shaking it.  
  
“I—I am sorry.” The Cossack had gone very pale.  
  
“It’s no matter,” Jan told him.  
  
Bohun stared.  
  
“You know, this was all rather… unexpected,” Jan tried.  
  
He watched as Bohun struggled, clearly strained to breaking point.  
  
Relenting, Jan kissed him again, slow and tender. Bohun’s mouth opened under his, and he could feel a great tremor run through him.  
  
Pushing Bohun back, Jan laid him on the floor, then began to remove each layer of clothing, stopping Bohun each time he tried to force the pace. When the last piece was removed, Jan kissed him again, then his neck, then his collarbone, and down in a slow, deliberate line.  
  
The tension in other man’s body was incredible. Jan paused to look up and nearly lost himself for a moment in Bohun’s eyes. Dark, they were, and intense, as Jan had seen them many times before. But now beneath the hunger there was more: something nearly akin to fear.  
  
Jan looked a question.  
  
Bohun’s expression was utterly, hopelessly lost, yet with an edge of defiance that in this moment struck Jan as touchingly ridiculous  
  
Unable to help himself, Jan raised his eyebrows suggestively.  
  
Bohun’s mouth fell open in a look so foolish and _human_ that Jan felt his lips quirk in a smile.  
  
“Very well, then,” Jan said, and said no more for a time.

  
  
  
When at last he glanced up at a completely shattered Bohun, Jan smiled again—smirked, actually. He lay down next to him, using the man’s discarded _kontusz_ as a pillow, and propped his head up on his elbow.  
  
Beneath the satisfaction (and even amusement) he was aware of that earlier sense of piercing happiness, now spread to an infinity within the confines of his ribs.  
  
Jan pulled Bohun against him, and the Cossack did not resist, though at first he lay rather stiffly next to the other man’s body. But soon the tension drained from him. After a while, Jan was amused yet irritated to hear the sound of snores.  
  
“Wake up,” he said.  
  
“I wasn’t asleep,” Bohun said.  
  
Jan’s heart was too light for argument. Instead he sat up, got to his feet, and offered Bohun his hand.  
  
“Come, let’s to bed. The floor is hard, and cold besides.”  
  
Bohun took his hand, holding it for a moment, then allowed himself to be helped to his feet.

 

* * *

  
  
In the middle of the night Bohun started awake. He sat upright, staring round. The room was dark, and he could not remember for a moment where he was.  
  
Then a warm hand reached out to him, and a sleepy voice said: “You’re letting in the cold air.”  
  
Heart pounding, Bohun lay down again, pulling the blankets back up over their shoulders. He waited a time, listening to the night sounds and the rhythm of Jan’s breathing.  
  
When he was certain the other man had fallen asleep again, Bohun pushed up on his elbow. He could see little: Jan’s dark hair was a mere smudge against the pillow. Bohun bent his head towards Jan, then hesitated, listening hard.  
  
At last, sure that none would see or hear, he pressed a soft kiss to Jan’s forehead in the dark.


End file.
